


The Impossible

by heeroluva



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is stabbed, certain facts about his past are revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.

Sherlock didn’t shout as the man they’d been tracking appeared out of nowhere and tackled John against the wall before running, but he did when he saw John’s face, pale and shocked, his hand pressed up against his abdomen for a moment before he brought it up to his face, wet with blood. Dashing forward as John’s knees collapsed beneath him, Sherlock caught him, sending them both to the ground. Sherlock didn’t care that the murderer was getting away, he was too busy calculating blood loss. Though even seconds later, he realized that it was too late and didn’t bother dialing 999, knowing that an artery had been hit, that they were too far from anyone, and he would bleed out long before help could arrive.

With one hand pressed against the wound, bleeding black blood—liver damage, not good at all, but then none of this was good— and the other cupping John’s face, he pleaded, “John, John. Stay with me. Please don’t die.” John couldn’t die. Not like this. Not now. Not ever. Life without John, Sherlock couldn’t even comprehend, and that scared him unlike anything he’d ever faced.

John had somehow become important, and Sherlock had let himself care. Stupid. So stupid. But this couldn’t happen. Sherlock would be lost with him. John wasn’t just his blogger; he was so much more, and emotions that Sherlock kept long buried and ignored surged to the forefront, not to be contained any longer. Not in the face of this. 

John’s hand rose to Sherlock’s cheek and wiped at his tears. His mouth opened to speak, but all that came out was a small gasp. The soft glow from John’s pocket suddenly grew bright, almost blindingly so. At first Sherlock had thought it was his mobile and ignored it, but this was impossible to ignore and with a blood slicked hand, he pulled out a—fob watch?

Sherlock knew that he’d seen it before, multiple times, dozens if not hundreds of times; John always had it, played with it, flipping it over and over or rubbing his thumb over the smooth back. But for some reason Sherlock could barely remember those instances, had almost forgotten them, ignored them as though he hadn’t really seen anything, which wasn’t right. And even now a small portion of his mind was telling him to ignore it, that there was nothing there. It was wrong because he never forgot anything unless he made the choice, and he would never choose to forget anything about John, not one single thing. 

On impulse Sherlock thumbed it open, only to be blinded by a brilliant flash of gold. John jerked beneath him, and suddenly screamed in agony. Sherlock could barely see past the golden glow that surrounded them, his brain trying to quantify what he was observing, the particles that seemed to be flowing around them, through them, and finally settling into John. And beneath his fingers, Sherlock could feel the torn flesh knitting back together, defying nature. 

This wasn’t possible, but there was no denying it. Finally after an eternity, John went boneless and the glow slowly faded, though not completely; Sherlock could practically see it radiating from beneath John’s skin.

Suddenly John’s eyes flew open, his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s which contained the open fob watch. “Sherlock, what have you done?”

John’s eyes, once blue, were now molten, swirling with possibilities, and if Sherlock was a poet he could almost believe that he saw the universe in them, all of time and space, all the promises of the world, and it was inside John.

A sound, so strange and out of place, almost like metal grinding against metal but not, pulled Sherlock’s attention away from John, and he watched in disbelief as before his eyes a blue Police Box materialized out of nothing. For a moment Sherlock was left wondering if the fob watch had contained some sort of drug, a hallucinogen that they’re both ingested, but this all felt real. If the Police Box wasn’t strange enough, one of the doors and out walked a young man with ancient eyes, wearing a tweed jacket and a bowtie.

Despite the gun that Sherlock had trained on him, the man didn’t seem fazed at all.

“Now, now. There’s no need for that.” With a flick of the man’s wrist, using a device that Sherlock had never seen before, the gun was suddenly wrenched from Sherlock’s hands. He sauntered forward and said, “Sorry. We don’t seem to have started off well. Let’s try again, shall we?” He paused for a moment. “Hello, I’m the Doctor, and I believe I can answer any questions you might have.”

John’s hands were tugging at him, but Sherlock ignored him. “I highly doubt that.” But Sherlock felt something strange under his hands placed on opposite sides of John’s body. Sherlock shoved John’s ruined shirt up, pressing his hands against bare skin, his eyes widening as he met John’s own which had once again faded to blue.

“Sherlock. I have two heart beats. I remember parents who weren’t my parents. And I think I’m seeing _time_ , or at least part of my brain is telling me that it’s time. How do I even know what time looks like? I think it’s best if we listen to the man,” John said with slight panic, though always the voice of reason.

As John sat up with a groan, Sherlock helped him to his feet, holding John close to him as they both trembled: Sherlock with the possibility of almost losing John, John with the remnants of pain and whatever it was that had just happened.

Everything about this man—Was he a man?—looked human, eccentric, but human even if his eyes told another tale. However, what Sherlock had seen, what he’d just experienced, spoke of more, possibilities that he’d never considered because they had never mattered to him. Because they weren’t possible, they shouldn’t be possible. 

But here was the impossible right before Sherlock’s eyes. Any sufficiently advanced technology was indistinguishable from magic. And knowing that there was no such thing as magic, that left technology. Technology the likes of which was not possible, which meant.

Alien.

And because this was John, John who Sherlock would do anything for, Sherlock with his arms around John’s waist, supporting him, walked them forward, following this _Doctor_ into the unknown.


End file.
